


Hallowe'en Kisses

by redscudery



Series: Off-Kilter [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Time, Kilts, Kissing, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, Pirate Sherlock, up against a wall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-31
Updated: 2013-10-31
Packaged: 2017-12-31 02:30:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1026219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscudery/pseuds/redscudery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly Hooper’s new Canadian boyfriend is having a Hallowe’en party. John and Sherlock are invited, and John wears the only costume he can find on short notice. Or so he says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hallowe'en Kisses

“Canadian, Sherlock. Molly’s new boyfriend is Canadian. Do you even know where Canada is?”

“Of course I do. Serial killer was feeding his victims to the pigs there- primitive but fascinating.”

“Sherlock, Canada isn’t primitive…” John is slightly nonplussed. He’s never been to Canada, after all. “Pigs? Really?”

Then he regrets it; Sherlock opens his mouth to start a long diatribe and John just can’t take it once he’s heard the phrase “over twenty victims” with an exclamation mark at the end. 

“Anyway!” he says, with a touch of Captain Watson asperity, “Molly’s new boyfriend is Canadian, and he and Molly are having a costume party at her flat tonight. For Hallowe’en. I am definitely going. Are you?”

“Yes, yes, of course.” The words are half out of Sherlock’s mouth and he’s already bounding away to the computer. John hopes nobody is mad enough to give him access to live pigs.

Left to himself, John watches Sherlock’s animated movements. He’s the only person John knows who can type with style, leaning into the keyboard, curls fairly vibrating with excitement. A faint pulse of desire slides through John’s body. 

The last two days, the days since the kiss, have been days of work and experiments, tea and books, television and text messages.John doesn’t know how to proceed, though he wants to. Sherlock doesn’t know whether to proceed, though his plan is still in place. A kind of hush lies over everything. 

John puts his empty cup down on the table and walks over behind Sherlock, a formless need to be closer, to end the stalemate. 

“Anything interesting?” Really, he’s only interested in that soft spot at the back of Sherlock’s neck where curls meet skin. 

“Hmph.” Sherlock doesn’t even look up. 

John’s contemplating just bending over and kissing him on that spot when Sherlock’s mobile pings. Lestrade needs them at the docks five minutes ago, so off they rush. They’re not home until late, and by the time they get home it’s past time for the party. John flops into his chair gratefully.

“You know, we could just get takeaway and stay in.”

“I like costume parties,” Sherlock waves his hand at a large white box that hadn’t been there when they left, “They’re a challenge. Also, Molly would miss us.”

An eyebrow from John, this time. 

“Since when do you care about Molly?”

“Since when do you not?”

John sighs and hauls himself into the shower.

Ten minutes later he’s standing in front of his closet. There seems to be less than zero chance that he’s going to be able to pull together a costume. Military uniform is out of the question. A mime? He has a black-and-white jumper and black trousers, but he isn’t going to violate his policy of not asking Sherlock for any kind of lotion or compound- his eyebrows have only just grown back. 

Then he sees the kilt hanging in his closet, next to his cream cable-knit jumper. 

And suddenly John knows just how he’s going to move things forward. 

______________

“Sherlock, do you still have that pitchfork you nicked from the Evidence room?” 

Sherlock is settling the plumes on his hat when John comes clumping down the stairs. He turns around and sees boots, then bare leg, then swinging kilt and suddenly he can’t breathe. 

“Sherlock! I need that pitchfork. I’m going as a Scottish far…”

It’s John’s turn to be struck dumb. Sherlock is dressed in full pirate attire, tight knee breeches, open shirt, leather vest, and all.

John, immobile on the last stair, blinks like a gaffed fish, mouth slightly open. After the first few seconds he realizes just how ridiculous this is, both of them standing there staring at each other, but he can’t look away. He wishes even more fervently that they were staying in.

“Arr!” Sherlock says, breaking the silence. John snorts unbecomingly, nonplussed enough to revert to the usual tenor of their discussions. 

“Arr? Arr rates space in your brain? Over the…”

Sherlock raises a warning eyebrow. “Listing my shortcomings already? That’s brave, for someone who’s one gust of wind away from public indecency.” 

“I am wearing pants, you know.”

“Wrong.”

Sherlock is relieved, somewhat, that they’re back on familar ground.

John shakes his head.

“Pitchfork. Come on, let’s go.”

______________

 

Molly’s flat is cheerful and crowded. There are orange and black decorations everywhere, and bowls of sweets and popcorn and drinks. What seems like every Canadian in London is milling around in costume, happily drinking beer and talking at top speed.

“Is that a plastic canoe?” Sherlock hisses in John’s ear the minute they step in the door.

John opens his mouth to answer, wondering, somewhat worriedly, what this whole party-with-Sherlock experience will be like. Then Sherlock, who has been attracting quite a lot of attention with his great plumy hat, among other things—John is fairly sure those damned knee breeches don’t hurt—swoops down and kisses John on the mouth, briefly and possessively, then stalks off with a flourish to greet Molly. John freezes; he is not unhappy about this, exactly, but it certainly makes a statement.

“Hi. You must be John- Molly told me to look for the kilt. I’m Dave.” A friendly-faced man dressed in a pink frilly dress and mob cap appears front of him, holding out his right hand completely unselfconsciously. John shakes it. 

“You’re with the big pirate- Sherlock-right?”

“I am, I guess.” Not worth it to hesitate, after that trick Sherlock pulled. And what does he mean, Molly told him to look for the kilt? “Nice to meet you. Have you been in London long?”

“About six months now, on a joint research project with St. Barts and the University of Toronto. I’ve always wanted to work over here, and this was my chance.” Dave nods towards the kitchen where Molly is pouring crisps in a bowl. She’s wearing a check shirt & braces and looking happier than John has ever seen her.

“She’s a really lovely person. She’s done a great deal for Sherlock and me.”

“She is, isn’t she?” Dave smiles. “Come and say hi. She’ll be glad you’re finally here.”

Molly is happy to see him and mercifully says nothing about the kiss. John wilfully attributes the trace of smugness on her face to her new relationship. She asks about the case and soon they’re deep into the details. 

The conversation moves on to medical research, then sports, and an hour later, John’s suddenly half afraid that Sherlock has decided to go home, but no, there he is, moving from group to group. It looks like he’s actually talking to people, never mind that what he’s really doing is looking at costumes, analyzing drink choices, and listening to accents. John can practically hear his brain ticking over, storing up both tidbits of vocabulary and industrial quantities of admiration, the big vain git. It’s true that Sherlock’s easily the most handsome person there, though John would never tell him that. 

“OOOH, a KILT. I love a man in a kilt!” John nearly drops his drink at the interruption. The source of that frankly unnerving comment is a tall woman dressed in some kind of drapey robe. 

“You’re so CUTE. Look at you.”

“Hello. Er, thanks. I’m John Watson.”

“And LISTEN to your ACCENT. I just want to put you in my pocket and take you HOME!”

Molly would probably disapprove of him using the pitchfork on this person, so John just smiles noncommittally. 

She winds up for another, probably equally horrible comment, and John is ready for her.  
“I’m afraid my boyfriend would disapprove.”

Silence. She doesn’t exactly slink away, but she certainly is gone pretty quickly. Good thing she wasn’t too drunk to be embarassed. 

“Boyfriend?”

The voice is unmistakable. The warm breath on his ear is incredible. John shivers, but tries not to show it. Lestrade has shown up, in a highly improbable Pierrot costume, and John’s just not ready to explain the situation until he himself knows what’s going on. 

“I already buy your food and listen to you whinge. I think I deserve some perks.”

“Oh, it’s perks you want, is it?”

John doesn’t know quite what to make of this seductive, flirty Sherlock, but he likes it. 

“Depends on the perks. If you are going to leave me gently used liver in the fridge, I’ll pass.”

“You’ll need an extra liver if you drink any more of this Canadian.. beer? Substance? Look at the alcohol content!”

“I love it when you’re prissy.”

“Prissy?”

“I can learn new words too, you know.”

“As long as you know how to say ‘boyfriend’ and ‘Brilliant, Sherlock’, that’s fine.”  
“You’re easy to please.”

“Well, I was going to buy you dinner before insisting on any other words, but if all it takes is another beer, it’s certainly faster.”

“Prat.”

“Handsome prat.”

“You are so vain.”

“With reason.”

Sherlock has moved around to face him and John is feeling just a little dizzy. There is so much curly-haired pirate in his line of vision that he can’t see anything else. He’s tamped down his desire for Sherlock but his control only goes so far, and the closer Sherlock gets, the less he can hold himself in. 

“We need to leave, Sherlock.”

“But we were having such a good time. I learned at least fifteen new words.” Sherlock doesn’t really sound convinced.

“Couldn’t we have a better time alone together?”

“Oxymoron.”

“You bloody well know what I mean.”

A heart-skipping pause.

“I do.”

They are both smiling, their faces close to each other. John breathes in Sherlock’s breath, then holds out his hand. 

“Come on, then.”

They scarper like guilty little boys, not even saying goodbye to Molly. As soon as they’re outside, Sherlock pulls John around the corner and pushes him, none too gently, against the wall of the building. 

John, with the brick at his back, the cold air swirling around his legs, and the warm pressure of Sherlock’s body against his, has never felt more anticipation in his life.  
“I’m going to kiss you.” Sherlock’s voice is low. 

John grabs the front of that damn fluffy shirt and brings their mouths together with a crash. 

Sherlock’s lips are hot, and he tastes, at first, of lemonade and treacle toffee. Their tongues meet, and slide together, carefully at first, and then John tastes Sherlock himself. He bites that full lower lip, because he can, and Sherlock gasps. 

Moving downwards, because he’s beautifully placed to do so, John nips along Sherlock’s neck to kiss the hollow at the base of his neck. Sherlock shivers in a very gratifying way, then bends his head to do the same. He finds the sensitive spot at the back of John’s ear and John exhales sharply. 

When their lips come back together, the kiss is even deeper. John can’t quite tell where Sherlock’s mouth ends and his begins; it’s all smooth and slick and hot. They’re pressed the length of each other, and John feels Sherlock’s erection against his hip. He himself is painfully hard under that damned kilt.

“Sherlock, stop. Stop!”

Sherlock pulls back, surprised. His pupils are dilated and his mouth is partly open, but he looks suddenly wary. 

“John?”

“It’s okay, Sherlock. It’s just… we’re going to be arrested for public indecency if we keep going. As it stands…” 

Sherlock sniggers. John sighs.

“I’m already indecent. Can we please go home?”

“Very well, although I’m sure Lestrade would let us go with a warning.”

They walk back to Baker Street quietly. Sherlock curls his hand around John’s, and John lets him. Then he regrets it, sort of, when Sherlock starts stroking John’s palm with his thumb. It’s high-school stuff, but as Sherlock draws his long fingers across the inside of John’s wrist, the erection that has been subsiding leaps up again. He hasn’t felt like this since he was a teenager; the wild emotions and driving, hopeless excitement together are heady and a bit frightening. 

Inside 221B, John leans his pitchfork against the wall. Sherlock hangs the pirate hat on it with a flourish. He steps closer to John. 

“Trick or treat!”

“Is that what they say in Canada, then?”

“America too.”

“I see. And which do you want?”

“Oh, I think treat.” Sherlock drawls slowly.

John pulls him in for another kiss. He memorizes the way Sherlock reacts; there’s still a semblance of control, but he’s going to crack sooner rather than later, John thinks, and that he is going to enjoy.

John pushes off that leather vest and reaches for the buttons on the pirate shirt. He knows what Sherlock looks like in every state of undress, but, now the time has come to touch, he is eager to have him as naked as possible as quickly as possible. 

Not really a problem - there are only three buttons to undo. John slides his hands up Sherlock’s chest and pushes the shirt off his shoulders, feeling the lean muscle and the velvety skin that covers it. Sherlock arches under his touch, moving his body towards John’s warm hands and biting John’s lip. His breathing is accelerating but he hasn’t made any noise yet. Now that John’s made up his mind to make love to the man, he resolves to change that.

Seizing Sherlock’s hips, John grips him firmly and kisses him one more time, deeply. He intends to push Sherlock down on the couch and pin him there, but there’s a bit of a tussle for power when he tries. Sherlock wins, although John lets him (because in a fair fight, John will win every time, but he’s playing a long game here).

Sherlock leaves John’s mouth and moves around behind him. He strips John’s cable-knit jumper off and then slides his fingers around John’s waist from the back, under his T-shirt, then pulls the T-shirt off as well. 

John starts. He suddenly realizes just how odd his situation is - he’s standing in the middle of the cluttered sitting room, in nothing but a kilt and wellies, either seducing or being seduced by Sherlock Holmes. Two weeks ago he would have been sitting in an empty, featureless bedsit alone. 

Sherlock can tell that John’s mind has wandered, and he bends over and kisses the nape of John’s neck, his mouth half-open. Then, as if finishing the gesture he started nearly two weeks ago, he presses his bare torso against John’s back and slides his hands, both hands, around the front of John’s body and down to his cock. John is, as Sherlock very well knows, not wearing pants, and the roughness of wool against hardness is so, so tantalizing. 

“Sit down” Sherlock breathes in John’s ear, the bass notes of his voice vibrating between their skins. 

John sits back on the couch, and Sherlock bends to remove the boots. This accomplished, he stands back to look at his handiwork. John is naked except for the kilt; his hair is mussed, his pupils are dilated, and his cock is as hard as a cock should be. Sherlock kneels between his knees.

“Now what?” John asks, a little breathlessly, although it’s more just a placeholder.  
“I know,” Sherlock slides his hands up John’s thighs, “you are capable of figuring that out.”

John had sworn to himself that he wouldn’t be the first to make noise, because (as he discovered to his great embarrassment when he was seventeen and snogging Jennifer Ramsay in her parents’ garden shed) he is usually fairly vocal. 

However, the minute Sherlock Holmes pulls his hand back down to John’s knees, and then pushes them back up again, this time pushing the kilt up as well, John knows he’s in trouble. Sherlock’s hands are warm, his fingers are long and flexible, and suddenly they’re everywhere. Sherlock is watching his reactions intently as he moves his hands closer and closer to John’s cock, and John, already quivering, knows he’s going to break before Sherlock does. He looks completely unstoppable, more like a romance-novel hero than a consulting detective right now,with his tousled curls, lean body, and Regency breeches. 

Unless… John bends forward to kiss Sherlock, and, grasping him by his upper arms, pulls himself forward. Sherlock grunts as he is toppled back to the floor.

“Trick, John?” He sounds grim, but he can’t remember when he felt less so. John is straddling him, which means there’s only one layer between their bodies and, as John lowers himself down for another long kiss, Sherlock arches his back, pushing his hard cock against John’s. John pushes back, and they rock together. 

John lifts himself up a bit and reaches down. He runs his hand across Sherlock’s smooth stomach, then unbuttons the first of Sherlock’s criminally overstrained fly buttons. 

He dips his head to Sherlock’s neck and unbuttons the second. And the third.

When he gets to the fourth button, he realizes that Sherlock is not wearing pants either. 

“Overconfident, you are.” John murmurs against Sherlock’s neck, and slides his hand inside the breeches. 

For a breathless moment Sherlock doesn’t move. John’s hand is solid and steady and warm, and as he starts to stroke, gently at first, Sherlock is overwhelmed by both emotion and sensation. He needs John, in his life and in his bed, but he’s not sure if he can hold on to this. 

“John” he gasps, and John lifts his head. 

“I’m here” and of course he is, Sherlock thinks, and kisses him. He’s spinning, pleasure rising suddenly, quickly. He reaches out, up, under that kilt, and touches John’s heavy cock and balls. John groans, loudly, and begins to thrust into Sherlock’s hand as Sherlock thrusts into his. 

John has meant to be more deliberate, but Sherlock’s rough exhalations are tearing his control to shreds. It’s been so long, and Sherlock’s response, his hands, are so good. He draws back and bites Sherlock’s lip, then his neck. They hit a rhythm that works for both of them, and their boundaries dissolve, pushing smoothly against each other, breathing the same air. 

Sherlock comes first, and John sees his face contort with pleasure before John’s own orgasm overtakes him and he collapses over Sherlock’s body, their semen hot and sticky on Sherlock’s belly. 

 

For a few moments, the only noise is harsh breathing and kisses. 

“I was right.” Sherlock rumbles against John’s chest.

“You were.” John replies, “But so am I.”

There’s a pause. 

“Yes, you are right.” Sherlock seems to be conceding a point. “Let’s go to bed.”

**Author's Note:**

> The Pickton murders really took place, unfortunately.


End file.
